


In which John and Sherlock take an unscheduled trip to Beijing.

by slytherdor



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes - fandom
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-27
Updated: 2012-10-27
Packaged: 2017-11-17 03:44:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/547267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherdor/pseuds/slytherdor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock gets Shot and John gets annoyed. Both get butterflies</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which John and Sherlock take an unscheduled trip to Beijing.

John and Sherlock were sitting in front Lestrade's desk. John was hanging his head and Sherlock was wearing a look of stubborn dignity.  
Lestrade was mad.  
'You two are absolutely mental. You could have gotten yourselves killed. You endangered the entire operation and what's more -'  
Sherlock cut him off.  
'Endangered the operation!? We caught the killers, apprehended the accomplices and if we had waited, those two children would be dead!' 

'YOU GOT SHOT, SHERLOCK.' 

John's head snapped up. John hadn't been told.

Sherlock's face contorted, first with regret, then sheepishness and finally with fury at Lestrade. Lestrade just looked sheepish and covered his mouth with his hand. 

'You got shot?' asked John. His voice was the kind of deadly calm and quiet that masks anger to strong for words. Sherlock could tell just how mad he was.  
'It was only a flesh wound John.'  
Greg gave an exasperated sigh.  
'No it bloody wasn't Sherlock, why you didn't tell him is beyond me,' interrupted Lestrade,  
'He got shot in the chest, John. seven centimeters to the left and he would have a bullet in his heart.'

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut.  
'John, I'm sorry. I didn't want you to worry and I was in capable hands.' 

As they watched, John stood, picked up his coat and walked out of the room, taking care to close the door quietly. Sherlock felt tears in his eyes. Lestrade started  
'Sherlock, I'm sorry but you should've told him.' Sherlock looked up. Lestrade was scared. His eyes were cold and unfeeling. His fists were balled up. His lip was twitching. He was shaking. At that point, Donovan entered.

Sherlock was almost glad of the interruption. He would have probably asphyxiated Greg if not for her.  
He stood up, shrugged on his jacket and left without even a snide remark.

Sally and Greg raised their eyebrows at each other. Donovan was sure that he would comment on the fact that she had had a fantastic one night stand last night.

John's cab was pulling away from the curb when Sherlock exited New Scotland Yard. He looked straight ahead.  
John was mad. He was angry.  
Hell, he was fucking furious.

Sherlock had disappeared for a week after the case, which was usual for him. Sherlock had called him this morning saying that they were needed at the Yard. Everything had seemed fine.

7 centimeters. 

Fine. If Sherlock wasn't going to tell him things, John wasn't going to tell him anything.  
John made two phonecalls. The first was to Mycroft, asking him to not disclose his location to Sherlock and to organise him a place on a flight.  
The second was to Mike to set up a false lead for Sherlock.

Within the hour, John was out of the country with a bag full of his clothing.

 

Sherlock was mad. He was furious.  
He also felt... Guilty? Guilty.  
Okay, yes he should have told John. No, Lestrade shouldn't have told John. 

Mycroft would know where John was. Yes.

The phone rang twice.  
'No Sherlock, I will not tell you where John is.'  
'Why?'  
'Because John has asked me not to.'  
'Why?'  
'Because he said, and I quote, "If Sherlock doesn't feel the need to share things with me, I'm not going to share things with him."'  
'At least tell me how he got where he was going and for how long?'  
There was a pause.  
'He got on a plane. He also said that he'll be gone for "As long as it takes him to find me."'  
'Goodbye Mycroft.'

Unhelpful bastard. Fine. I'll find him myself.  
The first thing Sherlock did was search John's room.  
Three quarters of his clothing was missing. He intended to make it hard then. Fine.  
When I find him, thought Sherlock, I am going to tie him to my bed and never let him leave before apologizing - Wait. Wait. Tie him to my bed?

When Sherlock reached the airport, it was almost too easy to sneak into the staff rooms, steal a uniform and make his way into the security room. He excused the fat man sitting in front of the screen and set to finding John.

After two hours of scouring the tapes, Sherlock finally spotted John Skirting the walls of a terminal. He met up with one of Mycroft's men and was handed some luggage. He then bought a coffee before boarding Mycroft's Private plane.  
That bastard. He knew this would annoy Sherlock.

Sherlock found the footage of the plane setting off in an easterly direction. He searched the departure list and found that the plane was scheduled to land in Beijing, China.  
China?  
Sherlock realized that John was smarter than he gave credit for.  
John had figured out that the more people there are in a city, the harder it would be to find one. That bastard.

Sherlock then realized that He wouldn't be allowed to fly because of his bullet wound.

 

John was settling into Beijing nicely. He had found some work at an English practice under a false name. He had a small flat. He had also had a lot of time to think.

Really, John thought he should have noticed Sherlock's bullet wound. It was right after the case had finished. John was mad at himself for not noticing, for being too busy thinking about the way Sherlock's eyes light up during a case, or the was his shirt stretches over his chest when he whips around to elbow someone in the face.  
It had been a long time since John had admitted to himself that he found Sherlock attractive. Only to himself though. 

 

It had been a week since they had parted. Sherlock drove into the centre of Beijing. He had no clue where to find John. He knew where he would start looking though.  
Sherlock found a phone book and started looking for anything with English in the title. John didn't speak a word of Mandarin, he would have to find somewhere to stay. 

Sherlock, after an hour, was fuming. He closed the book and looked down at the list of 96 apartment blocks, 59 medical practices, 206 hotels and 63 restaurants that had English speakers in them. It needed to be narrowed down.

In the end he had crossed out exactly half of the hotels, one fifth of the practices, and eighth of the apartment blocks and all of the restaurants. Sherlock Found the closest hotel and rented the room for three weeks. He would find Doctor John Watson if it took him three months. He would search every single building in this city if he had to.

Sherlock bought a wall sized map and marked all of the different places. He figured he could search five or ten per day. About 130 places. So, maximum 28 days. He went downstairs and extended his stay.

He started with the middle of the city.

 

John had been getting used to life in Beijing. It was all very fast paced which suited him nicely. His rooms were clean, the surgery was relatively so. He was lonely though. He had also slipped into a routine, which bugged him. Wake up, get ready, eat breakfast in the cafe down the street, walk to the surgery, work for 12 hours, go back to the cafe, sleep. 

His limp was coming back. He missed Sherlock more than he thought he would. But hell, he wasn't giving up now.

 

It was on the 19th day that Sherlock finally got somewhere. He was skulking the streets of Ling Shancun. He caught a glimpse of blonde hair leaving a cafe. Nothing more than a glimpse though, the crowd prevented anything more than that.  
Damnit.

He looked at the smaller map he had bought to carry around and found the closest apartment blocks. Bingo, just down the street.

15 minutes later and Sherlock was staring at a slip of paper stuck next to a doorbell. Watson.  
Oh yes, Sherlock had found his Doctor.

Ten minutes after that, Sherlock was standing on the floor in the middle of John's small flat, looking at the military plainness of it all. Double bed, while sheets. Desk, computer and gun in the drawer, Medical folder and plain black desk lamp on top. Toothbrush, paste, razor, shaving creme, pain pills, flannel, towel, bathmat and full medical kit in the bathroom. Mug, English breakfast tea bags, three teaspoons, one plate, one bowl, sponge, dish washing liquid, milk, apples in the kitchen. A basket of clean washing in the laundry.

Sherlock looked in the drawers and found them unorganized. John's drawers were unorganized. That was most definitely odd. 

Sherlock smiled then. John was lonely and bored. Everything was in it's perfect place except the clothing. John wanted to be home. 

Sherlock sat on the end of John's bed and took off his shoes before getting under the covers and shedding the rest of his clothing.  
Sherlock had not been sleeping. He had been searching a suburb a day, getting maybe an hour of sleep every three days. He felt good now though, he had finally found his John.  
Sherlock got out of bed quickly to do just one more thing before he went to sleep, inhaling a little bit of John with every breath. 

 

 

John woke up that morning with a funny sense of lightness. He felt unreasonably happy. He did his usual routine with a bit more pep in his step. At the cafe, he looked out the window and thought he caught a flash of black, curly hair but the crowd prevented him from being sure. He worked at the surgery until 7 pm and got dinner at the cafe.

When John went to put his key into the door, he found that the lock had been picked and the door was just closed. His front door opened into the kitchen and two things hit him at once. The first was the smell of burning fruit, the second was the sight of a heap of burnt apples on the kitchen counter. Why would someone burn his apples? Was it a sign from someone? Unbidden, the thought came into his head. An apple a day keeps the doctor away. 

John smiled. Sherlock had found him then.

John removed his shoes and placed them by the door, like usual. He put his wallet and keys and phone into the bowl on the sink, like usual. He pulled off his jumper and rubbed his shoulder like usual. he then padded towards the bathroom to shower, like usual. After 10 minutes of standing under the steaming water, John had come to three realizations.

1) He was still supposed to be mad at Sherlock.  
2) He had no idea if it was actually Sherlock, but he was 99% sure.  
3) All he wanted was to throw his arms around the other man and kiss him. (John had to spend another five or fifteen minutes in the shower after that)

John got out of the shower and, clad in nothing but his towel, wandered into his bedroom, stopping dead at the sight of dark curls on his while pillow and pale limbs sprawled over the mattress. Sherlock was far too skinny. His entire back was uncovered and John paused to admire the sight and stare in horror at the nearly healed exit wound of the bullet. It looked incredibly like his own, but lower.

'If you're going to stare, at least have the decency to be subtle.' The deep voice was muffled because Sherlock's face was buried in a pillow.  
'Yes well, I don't think you deserve decency. After all, you did break into my home.'  
'This, John, is not your home.' John felt like swooning. Sherlock was naked in his bed. He was also naked. John realized that all he had been thinking about this whole 19 days was Sherlock.

'You should have told me you got shot.'  
'I know.'  
'You should have been eating these past 19 days.'  
'I know.'  
'You shouldn't have broken into my flat.'  
'I know.' John could hear the smirk in those words.  
'You shouldn't have been listening to me in the shower.'  
Sherlock chuckled. 'I know.'  
John sighed. 'You should move over.'  
Sherlock moved over. 'I know'.

John clambered onto the bed and flopped face down on the pillow. Sherlock was under the sheet so John pulled the quilt over himself.

They were silent for a while. It was dark by the time Sherlock piped up.  
'John?'  
'Mmm?'  
'Will you come home with me?'  
'My lease runs out in two weeks.'  
'My hotel room needs to be vacated in three days.'  
'You can stay here if you like.'  
'Where would I sleep?'  
'Is there something wrong with this?'

 

 

'Is there something wrong with this?'  
Sherlock's mind froze. He had heard John in the shower. Never in a million years had he imagined that the reason for that would be... Him. It might not be. John might just be suggesting that this is just a thing friends do. Is it? Sherlock didn't know.

'This as in?'  
'This, as in you and me sleeping in a bed.'  
Oh. So it was innocent then?  
'If you're okay with that, of course?'  
'Yes, that should be fine.'

Another hour or two passed.

 

 

'Sherlock?'  
'John.'  
'When was the last time you ate?'  
John noted the hesitation as Sherlock answered.  
'Yesterday.'  
'No you didn't.'  
John smirked at Sherlock's silence. He reached over and grabbed the landline from the bedside table. John ordered a serve of steamed pork dumplings and some coconut rice, because he knew both were Sherlock's favourites.

The food arrived and John answered the door in his towel before bringing the food back to his bed. Sherlock was sitting up. He was very pale.  
After he had watched Sherlock devour both containers of food, John finally asked.  
'Have you been taking care of the wound properly?'  
'Yes.'  
'No you haven't. That gauze is five days old at least.'  
John picked up his medical kit from the bathroom and unwrapped Sherlock's bandages.  
There was no infection at least. John removed the stitches and cleaned the area, the back having already healed and not needing attention, being careful of hurting the taller man.  
He had to fight to keep his thoughts in like. They were both naked in John's bed, he didn't need to be aroused right now.

After Sherlock had a new covering for the injury, The lay back down on their respective sides of the sheet, john on top and Sherlock underneath. 

 

 

When John's alarm went off at six in the morning, Sherlock was just walking through the door with his belongings and breakfast. He had woken early because John had flung an arm over his waist and he had morning wood that just got worse. His belongings consisted of a small suitcase of clothing, a map and a lot of pins.  
Sherlock had checked out and bought John a croissant from the cafe.

By the time John was out of the shower, Sherlock had put all of his clothes away and organised his drawers but he had disappeared again. Sherlock had decided that he wanted to actually find his way around the city, he'd only been running around looking for John so far, not paying attention to landmarks or streets.

He also needed time to think. John was giving him this funny feeling at the moment It was like he had air where his stomach was supposed to be. When he had put his arm around Sherlock, the taller man had felt lighter than air. His erection had also responded. Now that was odd.

John hadn't been awake, it was just instinct to cuddle something. Feeling the shorter man's breath ghost down his spine was intense too; he got chills whenever he thought about it. John Watson. My John Watson. My Doctor John Watson. My John.

He liked that.

He made it back to the flat by 6:30 and John was home half an hour late. He had decided to perform an experiment. When John walked into the bedroom, Sherlock had taken off all his clothes and just put the sheet over his hips. He buried his nose in a book when he heard the water turn off and right now John was standing in the doorway. We wasn't moving a muscle.

'If you're going to stare, at least have the decency to be subtle.'  
'Shut up, Sherlock.'  
John moved around and opened one of his drawers

Sherlock smirked at the silence.  
'Really Sherlock?'  
'Is there a problem, John?'

 

 

Sherlock had organised his drawers exactly the way John liked it. John ordered dinner for both of them.  
After they were both finished, John decided to perform an experiment. Sherlock was clad in a sheet and was sitting up with his legs crossed. John wrapped himself in the quilt, picked up a book and leaned back to rest his head on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock forgot to breathe for a moment and John chuckled.  
Sherlock glared at John. John smiled up at Sherlock.

'What are you doing?'  
'That's a bit obvious, isn't it Mr Consulting Detective?' John teased.  
'Why are you doing it?'  
'I can stop if -'  
'No, no that's fine. It's absolutely fine. It's...' Sherlock trailed off as their eyes locked. John's gaze flickered to Sherlock's lips at the same time Sherlock's flickered to John's.

Sherlock closed his book. John sat up and turned around.  
'John... What is this?'  
'This? I think it could possibly be attraction.'  
'Are you attracted to me?'  
'... Yes.' John figured it would be best to give a straight answer.  
'Oh. That's... That's good.'  
'Oh?'  
'Yes. I... I think I'm attracted to you t-' John interrupted Sherlock by pressing their lips together in a chaste but unreasonably arousing kiss.

When they parted, Sherlock's eyes were wide. John laughed quietly.  
Sherlock placed his hand behind John's head and pulled him in for another one.

'So this mean's we're...'  
'Yes.'  
They fell asleep under the sheet together. Sherlock was the little spoon.

 

 

John's lease ended and Sherlock and John got on a plane back to London.  
Mrs Hudson greeted them at the door and gave them a talking to for taking off like that. She wasn't surprised to see that they held hands while walking up the stairs.  
'It's about time you two admitted it.' The landlady smiled.


End file.
